July 27 Church

We were up early for the staggeringly--I don’t even know what to call it--various, nutritious, sustaining, and delicious, as cooked by our hosts--English breakfast, and then caught a ride with our housemate Linda (also here for the Hardy Conference) to St. George’s Church, Fordington, for Sunday morning service. It was interesting to attend a Church of England service in honor of the grumpy old agnostic. He apparently quit church in architectural offense over an addition to the bell tower, which he called the “pepper pot.” He probably would have objected to the lightning rod as well. This is a modern church, according to the pamphlet on its history, with the tower dating back only to the 1400’s, and most of the church 19th and 20th century, although built on Roman and Norman foundations. The windows were by William Morris and Edward Bourne-Jones.

In addition to the regular hymns and responses, this service included readings of Hardy prose and poetry about churches and church singing. The sermon was by an ecclesiastical woman from Canturbury who is a Hardy enthusiast here for the conference, who spoke with humor and sweetness. The priest also seemed funny and casual and sweet, while celebrating the high church rituals with reverence. Music was provided by the Beaminster Gallery Quire and players (viol, pipe, clarinet), in period costume. My favorite piece was a sped-up and lengthier version of the Old One Hundred, which I love anyway from childhood reading of “The Secret Garden” (the One Hundred refers to its number in the hymnbook, I realized today). The congregation, average age probably 67, stood and sang loudly and with vigor.

I made a video of the postlude music, which was a dance tune from the mid 19th century, hoping to upload it to the blog, but it looks like my little mini-computer can’t read my videos. Oh well, maybe when we get back.
I remember one of our Mormon acquaintances saying she envies the English their churches, and I know what she means. On a cold winter night, this church would have been foot-aching frigid, but on a hot summer morning, it was a cool oasis, a vaulted, echoing sanctuary from the world outside. I dumped all my change in the little bag they brought around during the collection, and now I don‘t have any money for the bus.